A Day of Sunshine

Nov 30
I get up after the first call to prayer, The Muezzin sings out for 2 minutes or so, mostly melodic, in Arabic of course. It's dark still but soon the eastern sky lightens and the mountains are backlit as the sun rises towards the edge of the hills. Down below in the city there are occasional taxis and motorbikes, a few people are walking down the hill to the market where trucks have arrived, unloading sacks of oranges from Nigeria, baskets of tomatoes and hundreds of melons passed  and thrown to waiting vendors who stack them in the open area in short wide pyramids. Sometimes the whole area is a peculiar green from the piles of them, like thousands of grapes covering the place. Running up the hill are the morning exercisers, who congregate in front of the building doing stretches and counting in husky, breathy voices together.
 The Sun makes it to the edge of the horizon just after 7am and below, the city is bathed in dust or haze, everything is indistinct except the noise. More people walking down the hill as the traffic increases. The sun is now brilliant, strong and hot as the light fills our apartment. I have to drop the curtain since I’m facing east and it shines into my eyes. The cool air of the night dissipates quickly. We have put our “perishables” on the balcony overnight and I pull them in before the sun has risen past  the mountain. Some vegetables and occasionally cheese. This is my time every morning. I sit and write and look at email.
Elke sits with her coffee and does exercise in the other room, then we make breakfast. After, I do the dishes standing at the window with the curtain part way down. The dishes dry quickly with the sun shining directly on them. By 11am the sun has gone past the edge of the building and we are in the shade.  A bit of wind might come up the dust/haze diminishes some.  By 1pm it is very warm.
Yesterday after writing /editing a piece for BWC I walked down to the market. There I bought some pears (avocado)  1 ripe, 1 almost ripe and 2 not so ripe- 900 francs- a bit expensive, the season is about to start so there are not a lot of them available. When they are, we buy 10 or 11 for 100 francs. about 20 cents. Tomatoes 10 or 12 for 500 francs-$1.00  Fresh (still covered in dirt) carrots, potatoes, and beans(no dirt), papaya’s in season and my daily lemon. Occasionally a treat; an eggplant, mushrooms in season, Chinese cabbage, broccoli or cauliflower. We rarely if ever buy melons, too big, no fridge, they go bad fast.
 After shopping I walked back up the hill, slowly with my walking stick. Arriving at the top I was sweating pretty heavily, heart rate up, shirt soaked. Inside the apartment a cool wind blows up or down the stairs. I have to watch myself on them  as they are inconsistant in depth and height. I’ve tripped a few times.
 Elke will have done laundry in a bucket in the bathroom and hung it out on the balcony. We have no large sink, this apartment is actually office space. We had a tap installed on the toilet  line to fill buckets. Dish water gets dumped down the toilet. The laundry is usually dry by the time we eat lunch.
By 5pm the wall in the bathroom has heated the pipes in it enough to have an almost hot shower. It  will radiate heat all night long so sometimes we leave the balcony door open during the night.
I miss the sunsets, they are on the other side of the building. By sticking my head out of the bathroom window I can sometimes catch it but it’s awkward. The window is just big enough for my head to poke through.And I have to remember to look. Around 6 the bats begin to fly from the cliff to the east, the flow of pedestrians up the hill increases and the setting sun lights up any clouds building in the north east,  bright red and pink. We often sit out on the balcony to cool down and talk  until the smell of some noxious burning substance drives us inside.

Instability

Nov 25
It’s back to normal here, honking taxis, the flash of reflected light down in the market, crowds of shoppers, children playing nearby and a couple of falcons wheeling and soaring above.
I spent part of the morning walking through town past the piles of charcoaled coils of wire pushed off the road, blackened pavement where the fires had been. Most of the evidence cast aside and contributing to the general debris at the side of the roads. In a few places piles of garbage mounting, smelling of course.
At the main intersections, police pick-ups, some with bored soldiers sitting in the shade under the vinyl covers, cradling their rifles. I had occasional glimpses of camouflage dressed militia here and there, walking the streets in pairs. In front of every cash machine a long line-up of people.
The vendors are busy, stores open for business, crowds around the women hawking fruit and vegetables beside the market. Young boys and older men trundling loads of firewood in their two wheeled carts.
We hear from locals that there will be a protest march on Monday. The last one here in Bamenda was “moved” to Buea so not much happened while we were gone to the farm. Some cleanup I imagine. Removing the piles of burnt tires, broken up phone kiosks and the hulk of a car off the road.
The protesters needing an outlet for their frustrations, piled tires and whatever else they could find, onto the roads across the city, setting them on fire to limit the mobility of the military.

 The response was, in my mind both pathetic and provocative. Various extensions of the military (so many  to account for and all their signs in French) racing up and down the roads randomly firing either tear gas or smoke bombs (I didn’t see anyone in tears or suffering) into the neighbourhoods, whether there were people assembled or not…! Like boys with big toys, showing off their firepower.
The helicopter surveillance (they seem to have only one) filled the air the day before we escaped with it’s noxious noise, circling the town wending it’s way across the landscape monitoring whatever.
After 50+ years of inaction and stonewalling the Anglophones are fed up. The president in power for more than 30 years appears to spend more time in luxury hotels outside the country than in. Sounds like the definition of absentee landlord living off the avails. He’s worth a fair chunk of change from funnelling monies received for the country into various offshore accounts. It helps support his playboy son heir-apparent in this fiasco. At least according to what I’ve heard.
There is talk of secession. When the British gave up their rule here, there were two Cameroons and most of the country determined that unity was the best option. That sentiment remains only on the French side now. There has been a constant erosion of rights and privileges, installations of government officials who don’t speak English and general ignoring of the desire for dialogue.
For us temporary residents, it was disturbing, anxiety raising and unpleasant; breathing in the smoke from burning tires (our  floors were covered in the dust, and this is with all windows and doors closed) random gunshots and people scattering whenever a military vehicle approached. Their laughter,  seen from my perspective, either nervous or disdainful.

 I had no desire to be stuck in civil war or any kind of violent  confrontation. That night the streets were uncharacteristically silent.
 Our driver had been unable to get past a barrier the day before so when we heard that something might happen we arranged for a quick getaway early in the morning.
Out at the farm it was quite peaceful, only a few passes overhead from the helicopter, birds singing and a beautiful star filled sky. We spent a couple of nights there, did some work on the stoves, some cultivation, chopped firewood and talked with the neighbours. Their perspective was we should not worry, nothing would come from it and everything soon back to normal, so we returned. It was ironic to be happy to hear the sounds of a busy city as we drifted off to sleep.
Monday? maybe back to the farm. And if things really get nasty? Already making plans to leave the country. But only if necessay.

Departing Douala

Our exodus from Douala Cameroon began with a taxi ride to another hotel. Douala is at the mouth of the Wouri river and is the major port for the country. Development has not kept up with growth and the once ample bridge built in the 1950’s is now a bottleneck. Construction on a new replacement is underway slated for completion in 2019 according to our driver. It towers over the existing structure which carries a rail line down the middle doubling as a passing lane although I doubt if much rail traffic crosses the bridge. During mornings and evenings it can take an hour or more to get across so during a lull we changed hotels.
The fellow pulling our luggage into the room said there was an early bus, that left at 8 so to get there by 6. We accordingly set our alarm and were ready to go before any breakfast (or especially coffee) was available. The driver misunderstood our request, taking us to an unfamiliar, complete war zone of a “bus station” Certainly there were structures masquerading as terminals, decrepit booths  with little roof and less seating. On top of which, at that hour, no one was selling tickets. The rain in the night had filled every pot hole and depression which along with months of garbage, refuse and discards made for a fragrant and unappetizing  prospect to walk through. The amused patrons of the stand we arrived at offered no suggestions. So we commandeered another taxi to take us to the “early bus” stand.
Arriving at the now familiar bus stand it was almost impossible to enter due to the narrow entrance and dedicated taxi drivers, motorcycles and pedestrians streaming in and out. Mayhem barely describes it. Elke alighted to go purchase tickets while our driver jockeyed with the other drivers and entrance guards. He managed to convince them to let him in to disgorge me and the luggage then quickly escaped. After dragging our bags under cover, I stood watching while the line slowly inched forward. It was a long line. Snaking from inside where patrons were seated on benches and shuffled forward as tickets were purchased back again on itself reaching around the roof supports and a pile of luggage, well past the building and onto the “sidewalk” behind.
Out in the yard taxis continued arriving  with more passengers. Trucks and buses came and went backing up slowly with liberal use of the horn as the motorcycles and pedestrians negotiated around the moving vehicles with little concern. Aplomb I believe it is.
A couple of women came up to us who had been at the previous bus “terminal” where tickets were apparently sold out. An explanation for the chaos was soon forthcoming… school start on Monday so everywhere families and children are returning. By 11 o’clock when our bus finally pulled out they had filled three and were working on the fourth.

July24
Travel broadens the mind. but anticipation drives the bus. Maybe. Some parts of travel are wonderful, vistas and obscure or unique examples of ancient architecture, foreign foliage, magnificent beaches and awe inspiring waterfalls are all a turn-on for me. I love the costumes or local dress of different cultures and sometimes the variety of food choices. Peoples attitudes and understandings, family dynamics  and governance are occasionally challenging to my preconceptions. They are part of why travel is so satisfying. Being in the moment, experiencing  difference and diversity. I thrive on variety and novelty.
Perhaps my age is showing, but the actual moving around is harder. I am continually asked to squeeze myself into taxis, sharing the seat in front or back till I’m jammed tight against the shifter or the doorhandles. Worse though is contemplating getting on a bus that might break down before we get there. Sometimes I have a non refundable ticket for a flight out of the country.
The busses are  often so crammed with passengers that the aisles are full of standees. The roof loaded so high it looks top heavy. Drivers who seem to believe fate is on their side hurtling around corners  and  passing on hill approaches. Passing upside down buses in the ditch or burned out hulks at the side of the road re-enforce my apprehension.
 I sat in the back a few times when we were unable to secure seats up front. Every bump magnified, throwing me skyward into the ceiling. My legs are usually jammed up against the seat in front, or splayed so wide anyone sitting beside me is sitting on my lap.
I hold my biggest fear for flight though. Consciously, willingly I enter a narrow a cigar of aluminum to surrender to a person I don’t know or usually see, much less meet, who proceeds to accelerate down a track lifting us into the sky at speeds beyond my comprehension. The takeoff is mostly smooth as we leave the earth pointed skyward.  I hold my breath, close my eyes and pray to whatever force available to make it successful.
My fear diminishes once airborne, the inflight goings-on a great distraction till it’s time to land. If the person in front of me is resting with seat tilted back, they are resting on my knees. Getting in and out is a balancing act wedging myself back in. I’m unable to make out dialogue through the supplied earbuds so I usually read: whatever is at hand or my own supplies, till I’m bored out of my skull. Sleeping is almost impossible. I drift off, jerking awake continually, legs cramping, back aching and neck in a permanent spasm.
 When the meals arrive they are welcome diversion no matter how they taste. Then getting to the toilet,  an opportunity to block the aisle as the stewards pick up remains. Standing a welcome relief; walking as much as is possible in the limited space. So many of my fellow passengers are comatose; watching the movies, listening to music or asleep.
Landing is deadly. That scorch- sound as the tires touch the pavement, the jolt and shudder as the plane settles onto terra firma is both welcome and terrifying.
 Security and customs, long lineups, usually unfriendly officials and the baggage lottery is anti-climatic in the extreme. Into the next conveyance, then arrival at my destination for recovery from the time zone difference  and respite till the next excursion.
It's all worth it though, meeting wonderful people and enjoying the gifts of this amazing world I have seen so little of... so far.

Funeral -redefined

We were invited to a burial this weekend. Not a funeral. The uncle of a close friend,  one of the last of the elders in his family had passed . He had been a big man in the community, well liked  and a significant influence supporting many members of  his village to go on to become educated.
Our friends, the daughters, nephews and cousins went off to the village of Mankwi early in the day to do preparations. A group of us volunteers shared a taxi and made our way off the pavement and into the mountains behind Bafut. The narrow road was dusty with occasional large rocks and a few potholes, squeezing to the side as an occasional taxi or truck roared past.  The views were majestic, through some seemingly unharvested forest, infrequent houses and a great valley falling away below to the mountain across the way,  eroded and scalped by the locals preparing to grow crops once it starts raining again.
Arriving in the village the road was plugged with pedestrians, parked buses and cars. Most folks dressed in their finest clothes, some in ceremonial robes and all the family we knew, wearing one fabric. As well there were choirs and women’s groups also all dressed in a "uniform" of colourful fabric making their way uphill to the church.
 Our friends welcomed us and insisted we head up to the church, along with  the continuous stream of arriving friends and relatives.
There were a few choirs,  the congregation sang,  eulogies and an overflowing building. But no lamentations.
After the service the coffin was driven down to the man’s residence where it was laid to rest in front of the house.
All around people were singing, greeting old friends and sharing food. We were offered the regional favourite Achu; cooked cocoyam with banana, wrapped in banana leaf. Unwrapped, it is spread round and round with flourish then formed into a mini bottomless bowl on the plate.  Yellow “soup” is ladled in and chunks of fish, chicken and/or beef placed beside. Normally eaten with index and pointer fingers much amusement ensues when I ask for a spoon. The spices in the sauce bear further investigation.

While our companions were busy snapping pictures, a parade of family and friends circulated through the room and through the village, meeting and greeting.
Outside we could hear  drums and after eating, walked down to where a dance group were performing surrounded by spectators.

What  a celebration of life! Everyone seemed joyous and friendly, although in the dancing there was occasional aggression and likely symbolic expression: Men shaking sticks and charging the circle of onlookers, occasional passionate arguing and of course the masked dancers posturing spinning, stamping their feet, ankles ringed with rattling seed pods.

No somber looks here, the pleasures of feasting, family reunion and witnessing the growth and maturation of children all speak to a culture focused on life and living.
And libation, the palm wine flowing freely, beer and carbonated sodas, men drinking from their cow horn cups, folks walking by in both directions with cases of beer, soda and jugs of mimbo.
During the dancing men were uncapping bottles and pouring it bubbling onto the ground amid shouts and clapping.
Back in the room where we had eaten, most of the Eco-builder  women's group began dancing with the folks from Betterworld  to the beat of a drummer,  practicing at first, with almost everyone in the room joining in.

I did my best to record their “entrance” weaving in among the celebrants down to the crowd at the main house where another group were dancing, circling the gravesite.






Our group stepped in once the others left. As I  filmed the dancers, everybody laughing singing and  having a good time I was struck by the lack of grief, the sheer exuberance and delight of the crowd. I managed to dance briefly as it wound down.

This was truly a celebration of life, the impact and deeply created connections of one man in community. It was inspiring. That’s what I want to happen when I go, no funeral for me,  instead family and friends celebrating the joy and appreciation for how well I lived my life.

Bamenda journal

After some soul searching and reality checks we’ve decided to continue living in town. The apartment building is familiar (our third time living here) and central. Step out the front entrance (there is no rear entrance unless I get us a rope ladder)
and it’s easy to catch a taxi going by in either direction. We usually walk though, right, to the Better World office towards Bafut or down Fish Pond Hill to the food market below. To the left goes down past the hospital to get to Commercial avenue or  to French lessons at Veterinary junction.

 This Saturday morning we made our way down the hill for weekend shopping and entertainment. It’s  an engaging descent as taxis and motorcycles laden with all manner of goods hurtle uphill and down often spewing noxious fumes. Both sides of the road there are tradesmen and  small industry making aluminum cooking pots, cement bricks and furniture . At the bottom the road crosses a stream choked with detritus and garbage, plastic, tires and discarded baskets from the market. Upstream, I saw a fellow washing himself.
 It's a busy time, the food market  packed with vendors and buyers, the motorcycle drivers congregating at the corner like vultures, waiting for fares. Crossing the road can be challenging although there is so much traffic and the road is so narrow it is often at a standstill.  The roadsides lined with vendors hawking wheelbarrows full of peppers, groundnuts, onions and oranges, the stalls behind with almost everything else.

We continued on past trays and carts of kola nut, potatoes and stacks of eggs to the fish market (all frozen). Then parallel to the main road up an alley past piles of new flip flops and many little kiosks  with used shoes hanging from strings.
Beyond this is the “clothing district” small booths and stalls shoulder to shoulder along a narrow winding track, densely packed with people, motorcycles honking as they make their way ferrying folks and goods up and down. The whole while in an endless cacophony all these vendors are yelling, calling out, some with repeating recorded messages,”one thousand for pants, one thousand for shirts”.  Piles of used jeans, towels and sheets, hats, new and used underwear. We round a corner past stacks of aluminum pots from big to much bigger, stone grinders, plastic utensils, curtains and used purses. The road was almost impassable, trucks offloading and motorcycles squeezing past the pedestrians and cart boys flogging drinks and snacks.
One had a sign: Special Sale, his cart filled with wines and hard stuff. Apparently no liquor licence required.
 Inside the main market it is laid out in a grid,  a mini medina with darkened passageways running East West and open alleys North South.  From cutlery to contraband I imagine it’s all available. We entered the main entrance off Commercial avenue specifically to see the fabric. Immediately to the right a wide passage of hole in the wall rooms, both sides, with layers of brightly coloured printed fabrics hung out in front. Inside the walls are lined with them, floor to ceiling, piles in the corners. It is almost too much.... I’d like one of each please.
Seriously, it becomes so overstimulating I have stop and focus on what I might use it for…

 In the other direction past the entrance there are three alleys of mostly women producing clothing, sitting at their sewing machines surrounded by the already created shirts, suits and dresses inside and out of their individual workstations. Taking pictures can be challenging. The locals do it all the time but as soon as I point, they want money or they object.
This day though, we were done, and walked out without looking at the clothing. Outside the vendors along Commercial line both sides of the sidewalk in front of the market. We picked our way through then  down the road to a small juice bar where we had a salad, a guava juice and reflected on our next moves.

Return to Cameroon

When the call comes it can be a surprise. On the eve before our morning departure, it was an sms/text message informing us our flight was cancelled.  As the message was less than illuminating, which flight? Morning or night? I called the airline.  A recorded message.
Thankfully I’ve become somewhat obsessive about packing. Most of it was done. Only the daily necessaries, toothbrush, bedding clothes for the trip and reading material still strewn about the room. We bussed out to the airport and spoke with an agent there.  Her eyes welled up, she composed herself, then expressed appreciation for us actually showing up and not ragging on her. We had two and half hours to get back, finish packing  and return for the 8pm flight to Brussels. Hotel room provided.
Landing in Douala the heat enveloped me like a wet blanket. What breeze there was blowing in the “windows” was warmer than warm. We trudged along the passage turning right, left and then down a long hallway,  then right again into a narrow booth where a fellow read our temperature… no Ebola here. Just around the next corner we entered a construction zone where the mass of people spread out into three indistinct lines creeping slowly through customs and immigration. I was at first pissed and resentful as two white guys basically forced their way through from the back past us all, then let it go and relaxed into patience.
Approaching the luggage carousel I wrestled off three of our bags,  and as the crowd thinned, waiting for the last one, imagined a number of dire scenarios. Thankfully all was well with the luggage angels… With help we managed to exit the building, everything intact to our ride waiting outside.
By this time it was dark. Rose our hostess had come with her driver to take us to Buea and  after greeting her we managed to jam our luggage and ourselves into the car.  But first a small “tip” to the fellow who negotiated past all the hawkers and touts crowding the exits.
Traffic here can be challenging with taxis hurtling past in either direction on either side and motorcycle taxis driving without due care and attention in all directions at all times. The bridge we needed to cross was a mere two lanes.  Crawling along bumper to bumper, three lanes deep, drivers would switch lanes pushing their way from one to the other when the smallest of openings appeared.
Once past the bridge I spied a large crowd of,  I assume, sports minded men doing jumping jacks surrounded by hundreds of …spectators? There were people everywhere, crossing the road, walking beside, joggers and folks having their evening meal, mothers with babies hauling bundles home and where possible everyone driving as fast as the road would allow.
Did I mention cracks in the road? Potholes in the pavement  big enough to lose luggage into?
After leaving the city proper the traffic thinned considerably and flashes of lightening lit up the sky. We cruised past miles of banana and rubber plantations and not much else till the outskirts of Buea.
 At our hotel  we took a short walk to stretch our legs and find some food and a drink. Nothing like a beer to sooth the frayed nerves and transition into another culture.
 In the morning  I extracted local currency from an ATM (neglecting to count zeros I took out 20,000 instead of 200,000) Then a walkabout with Rose, taking pictures with our now semi functioning camera (do not spill lime plaster on your camera). We managed to get a video interview recorded then trucked up the hillside to sit under cover as the skies opened up in a typical tropical downpour.
Later after securing our bus tickets to Bamenda I revisited the ATM and we were on our own for lunch.
 A slow walk up the main drag, a taxi back to the hotel and then a Cameroonian German style beer sweetened the fading light.  We ate dinner on the balcony, watching the local night life; Taxis honking, picking up and disgorging passengers and the endless stream of walkers.